Show Me Your Teeth
by Gabrielletrix Lestrange
Summary: A one shot of Enobaria's victory in the 63rd annual Hunger Games. My first fic published on this site. Leave a review if you would like to. I appreciate feedback. Enobaria's one of my favourite characters even though she's minor.


I drop the body of the second to last dead tribute as soon as I'm done with it. I don't even wipe the blood off the knife. As her cannon goes off, I feel a surge of pride. I am invigorated with bloodlust. I stand on the balls of my feet, shifting my weight from side to side. Falcon, the final tribute will be upon me any second. I cannot wait to kill him. I know he has a plan to finish me off. I look around in all directions. He can come from anywhere. I am overwhelmed with the insatiable urge to tear flesh. I bite at my lower lip until I taste blood. It's not enough. I claw my arms with my nails, leaving raised red marks. I dig my nails into my wrists until tiny red crescent-moons form. I am rabid with desire to destroy. He still won't come. I start to twitch. Anxiety crawls under my skin like fire ants, and I want to rip it all off. I pull out a handful of my own hair.

I cannot take it anymore. I let out a piercing shriek that is unlike any sound I have ever produced. I feel a dull ache in the back of my throat and it's as though my vocal cords have frayed. It's a slow burn and I love it. I let whatever advice my mentor has given me slide right off my back. I'm not waiting for the precise moment. The time to kill is now. The other tribute will be here soon and I will not have it any other way. I wish the arena would shrink, pulling Falcon towards me, making evasion a non-option. Not once during the entirety of the Games have I even come close to getting my hands on him. Catching Falcon is like trying to grab smoke from the air. I want to cut the smug grin he's been sporting this whole time off with my hunting knife. I know I should use my crossbow. He would be dead before he can get within a two arms' distance. However, I cannot bear to get my last kill over and done with that quickly. Once back in District Two, I won't be able to kill without consequence. I want my last to be my best. I want its scent to linger forever. It needs to be a personal kill. To get at his heart would be all too quick.

I feel a tingling all over. It is in my hair follicles, in the cracks between my teeth, and at the tips of my fingers. My ears seem to perk up slightly. Something is not right. I hear a ringing. It starts off low but gets progressively higher. I try to keep still. It's not right at all. I have the urge to run. I can't compare it to anything I've heard before. It sounds like the feeling of being pinched, but on every inch of your skin. I jog in circles, trying to shake it from my mind. It's one last trick from the Gamemakers. They've already thrown everything in their arsenal at me. The ringing persists, getting higher and louder. I pull out another handful of hair. I screw my eyes shut a moment, blocking everything out of my mind that is not bloodlust.

In the darkness of my own lids, I feel a great impact on my shoulder. I spring back to life and turn around. I shout obscenities. Falcon is here, and he is hurling large rocks at me. I dodge another. I pull out my crossbow and set it on my shoulder, too livid to acknowledge the pain. He messed up my dominant arm. I curse again. I aim with my left hand instead. This isn't part of the plan. I don't want to kill him from this far away. I draw back my arm and release. The arrow misses. I curse myself, cast the bow down and sprint forward. I bare my teeth, growling increasingly louder as I approach my opponent. He fumbles at his belt of knives and I run faster. I make impact into his chest and the both of us fall to the ground. We struggle against each other. Dirt and gravel scathes my skin. The dust we kick up gets in my eyes, and I'm blindly grabbing at Falcon's limbs. My hands feel a pair of shoulders. I push forward with all my might. I find myself sitting on his chest. I push his head back and hold it down with the heel of my hand. My feet pin down each of his hands. I reach for my hunting knife, but feel nothing in the holster. He is writhing against my grip, kicking his legs wildly, and I am weaponless. To crack his neck would mean to let go with both of my hands. My tongue flashes over my teeth. Perfect. I bite into the flesh on his neck and he screams out in pain. I clench my jaw tighter. Blood spills into my mouth and I am already through the soft flesh. I come in contact the hard rings of his esophagus and I cannot wait to rip. I am smiling as I bite harder. Both sets of my teeth come in contact with one another. I pull out and a chunk of his neck is in my mouth. I revel in the taste of his blood before I force myself to spit out the lump of his skin and sinew. The final cannon sounds. I take a look at his face. His eyes are frozen with a look of terror and his mouth is stuck in a pained contortion. I am almost saddened that the capitol will try to rearrange him to look nice for burial. They will aesthetically undo my brilliant work, but not its lethal result. Blood flows steadily from his neck. I dip my fingers in the hole and paint stripes on my face with his blood in celebration of my victory. The anthem plays and I shriek again, this time for joy. I won.


End file.
